Eggshell Days

 

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To my girl

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to Hugh Lander and Alyson Rugg for sharing their extensive knowledge of historic Cornish buildings so readily and to Ben and Hussey for letting me use such a great example of one. Also, a big thanks to Tina Jackson, who once lived in a bus, and to Tim Smit for putting me right on a journey to Exeter.

Prologue

For once, the God of Seating Plans at Weddings had smiled upon them. Actually, putting them all at the same table wasn't a divine plan at all, it was the bride's. She told her mother there was absolutely no point in splitting them up, since they always migrated toward each other within minutes of the speeches anyway, so they might as well finish where they started. Besides, their peculiar intimate banter could be a bit alienating for anyone who didn't know them.

“But single people are precious fodder at weddings, darling. And if they're not together, there won't be the banter, will there?”

“Oh, but there will. It will just go on over other people's heads instead. Honestly. Believe me. I know what they're like. And only two of them are single anyway.”

Luckily for the four of them, the bride's mother lost.

“Fantastic,” Emmy said, peering at the name cards from under the brim of her Portobello Market hat. “At bloody last. I was sure I was going to be stuck with that idiot in the embroidered waistcoat. Is this the perfect wedding or what?”

It was hard to argue. The service in the abbey had lifted them all with heavenly music and beautiful words. Then, from the Gothic arches, the congregation had spilt onto the school's sweeping Somerset lawns elegant heels sinking slightly into the early spring grass, which popped with crocuses and champagne corks and rose-petal confetti.

Black clouds rolled above them but they felt like the chosen few, kissing and laughing and getting mildly pissed under the only patch of sun in the country. When the tent sides rolled up to reveal twinkling trees of contorted hazel and underlit tablecloths of crisp damask glowing like campfires in the dusk, everyone clapped at the sheer theater of it all. Apart from Emmy and Sita, who made a beeline for their table to assert their domination.

“Wait, don't get too excited,” said Sita, circling. “We've still got a Nick and Jane Sansford, a Moo Danby and a Kathleen Rice to worry about.”

“Worry?” Emmy said. “You're not allowed to worry about anyone today. Today is going to be entirely worry-free.” She took another slug of champagne and squinted at the names on the cards. “Niall can have the Kathleen. He's always good with shy people.”

“How do you know she's shy? Do you know her?” But Sita knew who Emmy did and didn't know.

“I can tell by the name.”

“Oh, right, so you're being thoughtful,” Sita said, raising her dark eyes as if to say: like hell you are.

“Of course.”

“He'll meet someone one day, you know.”

“I know he will. He's just not going to meet her today.”

“Clearly.”

Sita switched the cards around quickly and Emmy smiled her famously contagious smile, the one that made her look as if she would spontaneously combust with gratitude, the one that made you fleetingly think she and Maya did share something of a resemblance after all.

Sita, of course, smiled back. “Moo can go between the married ones,” she said.

“They might not be married. They could be brother and sister.”

“Who cares? I can't be bothered to find out, can you? So how far have we got? We'll have each other. And, um, I want Niall on the other side.” Emmy took off her hat and tossed it onto her chair, shaking her hair free and rubbing her scalp. She had had enough of being groomed.

“Like I don't know,” Sita said.

Emmy blew a few strands of her suddenly static-filled brown hair out of her eyes. “It's no good. I'm going to have to tie it up. I should have had it cut.” She took a tie from her wrist, where she had hidden it among a collection of silver bangles, and pulled her hair into a simple ponytail. “That's better.”

But Sita was still concerned with the seating arrangements. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. She put the place names back and double-checked. “Good. That works. And the other advantage is that this way you can supply me with discreet fags.”

“Since when have you ever had an indiscreet one?”

“I used to smoke openly at college.”

“No you didn't. You used to hang out of the window if you knew he was coming round.”

On cue, Jonathan walked up with Lila on his hip and a rattle between his teeth.

“Oh no!” Sita said, putting a finger in the chubby out-stretched hand and taking the toy from her husband. “What are you doing here, baby?”

“She screamed every time I put her in the cot and it's not fair on the others. They've got a private cinema going on up there.”

“What are they watching?”

“Don't ask. You don't want to know.”

“I'll feed her before we eat,” said Sita, instinctively putting her palms on her Chinese silk blouse to check her breasts, “then she's going to bed regardless.”

“You put her down, then.”

“Jonathan! She's not an old dog!”

Niall's wit radar was working well. He arrived at the table just in time to catch the line.

“Which is more than I can say for…” He gestured at a blond woman in a tight glittery sheath who was laughing loudly at everything. “What's she called again?”

“That's Sooty.”

“Jaysus! Does anyone have a proper name around here?” He was already loosening his silver tie and working up to taking off his morning coat.

“Don't be so rude. She's really sweet,” said Emmy.

“Sweet? Why are you always so nice? She's a feckin' maneater.”

“You can talk.”

“I've never eaten a man in my life.”

“No, but you look like an old dog. Did you sleep in that morning suit?”

“I did. You told me not to be late.”

“Liar.” But with Niall, it was quite possible he was telling the truth.

The four of them settled down. Lila, wine, cigarettes and breadsticks passed between them as they huddled together, blissfully unaware of how intimidating they looked to the Moos and the Nick and Jane Sansfords of the world. They talked quickly of who they'd seen so far, how much they'd aged since the last wedding, where the weight had gone on and which couples were still together, but really nobody interested them more than themselves.

Astonished to find herself at a wedding she was actually enjoying, Emmy raised her glass. “To Sara and Sean and their fantastically unimaginative seating plan,” she said.

“Hold on, hold on, we haven't toasted you and Maya yet,” Jonathan pointed out. “I think we should do that first. Marriages are two a penny.”

“That's true,” said Niall. “You rich bitch!”

“Hardly,” Emmy said, embarrassed. “You should see it. The place is falling to pieces.”

“I have seen it.”

“Yeah, ten years ago. Time takes its toll, you know. You'll see what I mean.”

“Great, is that an invitation?”

“You don't need a bloody invitation. None of you do.”

“What about next weekend, then?”

“Okay. Then you drop the heiress bit.”

“A Cornish manor is a Cornish manor, darling,” Sita said, signaling for a puff on Emmy's cigarette.

“It's not a manor, it's a farmhouse,” she corrected, but exuberance bubbled up through her words, making her finish with a small laugh.

“Bollocks! It's a bloody mansion and you're just too grand to admit it,” Niall said.

“Well, whatever it is, the photos make it look amazing,” said Sita, seeing Emmy's neck getting blotchier with embarrassment by the minute. “I think the decision to live there is extremely brave and we're all seething with envy. Maya's already told me three times that she can't wait.”

“That's only because I've promised her a surfboard when she's eleven.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of bribery.”

“You could all come and live there with us,” Emmy suggested, meaning it.

“We'll remember that when I finally get the sack,” Jonathan said.

“Next month, then.”

They all cheered, even though his situation at work was far from funny.

“To Emmy and Maya and their inheritance,” he said. “May they live happily ever after in their rural idyll.”

“To pneumonia and bankruptcy,” Emmy added, blinking furiously to hide her pleasure at the realization that she was, at last, the subject of at least some sort of toast.

She could feel Niall's left shoulder lightly brushing her right. Every time he leaned over toward the others, the brush turned into a press. There was nothing secret about it, but she couldn't help thinking that only they knew it was happening.

*   *   *

Later, she wished she had cherished those few minutes a little more, because suddenly there was a waft of unfamiliar perfume and his shoulder had gone.

A woman had arrived at the table wearing the sort of clothes that looked even cooler than they were for giving the impression that she had left it till the last minute to decide what to wear. A bias-cut murky green dress, a tiny fern print chiffon jacket and no hat. Her short, spiky blond hair was waxy and her lipstick was a startling pink.

“Hi,” she said lazily. There was a transatlantic something to her voice. “I'm Kat.” She pulled out the chair next to Niall's.

“Niall O'Connor,” Niall said.

Emmy felt the space where his shoulder had been become an icy wasteland.

“So, Irishman,” Kat drawled for all to hear, “have you got a wife here or what?”

*   *   *

“I've lost him,” Emmy said to Sita over pudding. She was on the other side of her friend now. If anything, witnessing Niall and Kat's rapid sexual progress from a distance was even worse. She could see every detail face on.

“Stop that,” Sita said. “You know what he's like. He's just a serial flirt.”